Need You Now
by Sopphires
Summary: Songfic based on Lady Antebellum's 'Need You Now'. Sequel to According to John and Lost and Found. Sherlock returns from the dead to bring to justice his final foe. John has succumbed to the demons in his head and in the drink. Can they help each other?


**_A/N: So this is the final part in my trilogy. If you haven't I suggest you go back and read to other two; According to John and Lost and Found. According to John is the first and Lost and Found is the second. This is a re-write, basically, of 'The Empty House' just as Lost and Found turned into a re-write of 'The Final Problem'. Anyway enjoy the fic and leave your thoughts at the end because I really let them right themselves, this turned out way different to how I originally planned, and a lot longer.  
>Thanks for reading<br>Sopphires_**

* * *

><p>Need You Now<p>

_Picture perfect memories  
>Scattered all around the floor<em>

The sun was rising in London. It began to creep above the low car roofs and steal in through the cracks in the curtains of the bedroom windows. Its rays shafted through the window of a hotel room onto the face of a sleeping man. His room was chaos. Pictures and newspaper articles littered the floor. On the wall were maps with lines and pins that had been torn down and put back up. The man shifted on the floor, the pictures sticking to his face. Some of the pictures were mug shots of men and women, most had red x's through them. Other's were surveillance like photo's, observing people by cars, or on the street. The man himself had dark shadows under his eyes, this being the first nights sleep he had gained in a week, he had, in fact, collapsed. His eyelids began to flutter, his sleep disturbed by the light. A tired arm reached up to sweep the curls from his face. Sherlock Holmes awoke.

* * *

><p><em>Reaching for the phone 'cause<br>I can't fight it anymore_

Sherlock stood and rubbed his eyes, annoyed that he had succumbed to sleep. He checked the watch on his wrist, 5:45. In London it would be, then he stopped he was in London. That was always his immediate thought, to work out the time difference between where he was and London but now finally he was back. It was good to be back though. He could easily hail a cab and be back in 221B Baker Street. Back in his old life at Baker Street. How he missed his old life. Sometimes it had taken all his self control to not board a train but he knew if he did he would be jeopardising everything he had worked for and the little he cared for. Sometimes he just wanted to call Baker Street, he wanted to hear Mrs Hudson ramble about what was on the telly and to tell him to make sure he was eating. He wanted to hear Lestrade bound up the stairs and ask him to come to a crime scene. Hell he'd even want to hear Anderson's pathetic attempt at reasoning how Sergeant Donovan once more stayed the night, but most of all he wanted to hear John. He had heard from Mycroft that, amazingly John had made a full recovery. He was fine, pretty much, though he had taken Sherlock leaving very badly. Sherlock had made Mycroft promise that he would look after him and Sherlock hoped that Mycroft was doing that because if he wasn't he'd go round and smash everyone of his precious security cameras. He really wanted to hear John talk though. To hear him berate Sherlock about what he left in the fridge, to ask if he wanted tea, to marvel at his deductions. In truth, irrational as it was, a part of Sherlock was homesick.

* * *

><p><em>And I wonder if I<br>Ever cross your mind  
>For me it happens all the time<em>

Mycroft sat in his apartment in central London. It wasn't really his, it was the governments but seeing as he was the government it did make it his, sort of. Ever since Sherlock had left he had been rotating apartments at irregular intervals. He would call up the movers and move out one day, whenever he felt like it and go wherever he wanted in London. He often stayed central, it was more convenient. He gazed across the panorama and thought about Sherlock. His little brother. He remembered picking him up after his face resolute, the pain buried deep. His assistant had treated him whilst they drove. Lestrade had been the copper on the scene as luck would have it and Mycroft had got the call that Moriarty was dead. They hadn't had long though. Mycroft had replied by saying that he had found Sherlock's body and the case would be taken over from here. Sherlock had explained, then, what he had wanted to do. How he was going to hunt Moriarty's criminal organisation, eliminate it. Mycroft didn't argue. He expected nothing less. Sherlock was taking this all very personally. He thought of Sherlock everyday as he occupied London. He wondered just how often Sherlock thought of him? Little he guessed, and if he did it was likely to be in conjunction to the fact he was supposed to be keeping John safe. If any person was to cross Sherlock's mind it would be Dr John Watson, former army medic. He had been right though, Mycroft knew that. His own words were coming back to haunt him.

"_Interesting that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother… or make him worse than ever." _Well he'd certainly done both those things. There had definitely been a time when Sherlock had been more human and he was sure that was all down to John but now he was sure that allowing himself to get attached to John was the worse thing that had ever happened to his brother.

* * *

><p><em>It's a quarter after one<br>I'm all alone  
>And I need you now<em>

Sherlock pressed the towel to his leg and tried to stop the bleeding. It wasn't a deep wound, just a scratch really but it was still bleeding quite badly. He'd taken some pain killers but he really needed John here. He'd never understood how he'd survived without John before. Having a doctor around in his kind of work was more than useful. John would stitch him up and then he'd be fit to go tomorrow. It was quarter past one in the afternoon. That meant Mycroft would call in 15 minutes, best make sure that he doesn't notice if I'm in pain, thought Sherlock as he hobbled round the room. He had been so close to catching them. This was another reason that he needed John. Had there been two of them. He sighed and leaned back on the bed. Being in London wasn't as welcoming as he thought. He was all alone in this. One more man he thought. One more man and this is all over. Cursing he pulled himself off the bed ignoring the blood on the pictures. He feverishly searched through the news for anything that could be him, anything.

* * *

><p><em>Said I wouldn't call<br>But I've lost all control  
>And I need you now<em>

"Mummy cried the night father died because you walked away from his grave without a sound." it was the first thing that Sherlock heard when he answered his phone.  
>"Mummy cried the night you left for boarding school because you left your teddy bear in bed." was his immediate response. He could see Mycroft wince in his minds eye. Now that he was sure that he was talking to his blessed older brother they could get down to business.<br>"What happened?" Ah so Mycroft had been watching.  
>"He got away."<br>"Unscathed?"  
>"Me or him?"<br>"Either."  
>"Lovely to know about your priorities."<br>"Come now we both know who _you'd_ be more concerned about."  
>"But <em>you<em> claimed to be the 'caring' brother."  
>"This is bigger than our childhood squabbles."<br>"You're saying that because you can't admit you're wrong."  
>"Neither can you." silence "Now, were either of you hurt?"<br>"I was cut by his knife, nothing serious, a graze."  
>"I am always able to tell when you're lying to me." Sherlock paused once more before ploughing on.<br>"I will not need your assistance anymore Mycroft."  
>"What?" there was surprise in his voice.<br>"I am in London I have a great many contacts that are much more useful for bringing down a criminal than you."  
>"You're thinking of going back to Baker Street." there was something in his voice that Sherlock had not heard there before, was it worry?<br>"Possibly, I will be laying a trap for him though and I would appreciate that you didn't interfere."  
>"Things aren't the same, be careful." Mycroft hung up before Sherlock could answer. He tapped out a text message to his assistant.<p>

_When does the plane for Turkey leave?-MH_

_Half an hour. I could delay it.-A_

_Do that, I think I should be at the talks after all.-MH_

_Very good, sir.-A_

Sherlock hurried to Baker Street. He was going on foot as it would be easier to disappear this way. He knew, from the little that Mycroft had told him, that John should be at work now, so Mrs Hudson should be in. He would need her for his plans, though he did have his qualms about getting her involved. However Sherlock had to admit she was a resilient women, she had asked for her husband to get the death penalty, which he had deserved, instead of covering up for him like he'd wanted. Sherlock knew there was a lot more to Mrs Hudson then many people thought, it was one reason that she could put up with him and vice versa.

Walking up Baker Street was like stepping into one of his dreams. In his dreams, when his urge to go home could be fulfilled and his imagination could allow him to wonder past the iron railings of the tall houses. Hear the chatter of the many tourists. Observe the occupants of the smart London cabs as the drew away from the pavements. He paused outside Mrs Turners and could just hear her voice, steam rolling on at her tenants, whose hands, Sherlock knew, though he'd never met them, were clasped firmly on their knees willing the other to get through the hour of gossip. Then it came to his home; 221B. Mrs Hudson's house. The flat he shared with John. Home. The windows were repaired. Everything was normal, ordinary, verging on dull, except that it was real. Sherlock could feel the smooth, cool, metal of the knocker as he banged it against the door and as it swung open he knew he was where he needed to be.

* * *

><p><em>And I don't know how<br>I can do without  
>I just need you now<em>

Greg Lestrade sat as his desk reading the report for the umpteenth time. It made no sense. No sense. The man had been shot but his door had been locked from the inside. No one had come in or out of the window. No one had heard anything. He ran a hand up and down his face. It was times like this that he really missed Sherlock Holmes. He was sure, though Donovan and Anderson may scoff, that he could crack or at least through some light on this case. The fact was, was that Greg, really, really needed Sherlock. It wasn't like he hadn't noticed that his results were slipping. Of course most of the time he got there in the end but he'd always know that if Sherlock had been there it would have been a lot quicker. If Sherlock had still been alive they could have saved a few more lives. Greg didn't just need Sherlock, this whole bloody city did.

* * *

><p><em>Another shot of whiskey<br>Can't stop looking at the door_

John drank. It was a large gulp. A deep draught that emptied the pint glass. The barman was over in a flash, refilling it with a sympathetic look. God how he hated that sympathetic look. He got it off everyone in here. He was John the drunk. He sat in here the whole day and drowned his sorrows in pint after pint of larger. At closing time a dark car would pull up and the barman would deposit John in it with a pretty women who spared him a pitying half glance. The thing about John that everyone pitied the most was that he came day after day and sat there, staring at the door. He just sat and stared and drank. Everyone who regularly frequented the pub knew John's tale. It started when he'd been invalided home from Afghanistan. To sum up his life he had an army pension, a crummy MoD flat, a crap therapist, a gunshot wound, a fake limp, nightmares and a gun. Then one day he'd bumped into an old friend of his, John said he must be hard to find a flat mate for and said friend decided for unknown reason to introduce him to the other person who had said that to him today. Enter, eccentric flatmate Sherlock Holmes who in the few minutes he meets John correctly notes that he's an army doctor recently invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq, he has a psychosomatic, a therapist, a troubled relationship with a brother who drinks and has recently split up with his wife. All of this is correct except his brother is actually his sister but it's an easy mistake to make. They meet the next day at the flat, then John discovers that Sherlock is actually a consulting detective and helps the police with his inquires. He brings John along to a crime scene to because he's a doctor and all the forensic team hate him. Thus starts their partnership friendship thing. It's all pretty up and down from here John goes from ranting about how inconsiderate a flat mate Sherlock was to regaling how brilliant his deductions were. Then his face would grow dark and he would grip the glass he was holding tightly. Moriarty. The name sent shivers down the spines of all those in the pub. No one could quite discern why, either. John began to tell them of his last case with Sherlock, how he it had started as a game and ended with him being kidnapped. How he'd ended up in a coma for six months. Then when he'd woken up he'd discovered that he had no recollection of how he got there. It had been an arduous process the slow recovery, coupled with the fact everyone thought he was going mad because he kept saying he was hearing Sherlock talking to him. Then after Sherlock had died John had been moved to a psychiatric unit because he kept insisting that Sherlock was still alive. Eventually when he was physically better he was let out because it was pointed out that he wasn't hearing Sherlock now. He was a sorry looking man. A wreck. Lost inside his own head, unsure whether or not to believe Sherlock was dead.

* * *

><p><em>Wishing you'd come sweeping<br>In the way you did before_

John didn't know what day it was. He didn't know what time of day it was. He could only think of the alcohol that what being poured into his system. It must be early, he reasoned, he wasn't that drunk. John's arm lifted, tilted the cup, then replaced on the table. Reflex. A habit. He let out a shuddering breath as he thought about Sherlock, like he always did. He didn't understand why this was effecting him so, he'd lost friends. If Harry died he knew that he wouldn't be sitting in a pub drinking. But then again was Sherlock dead? The question ran round his mind like a dog chasing it's tail. Spinning in circles. Smaller and smaller. Never quite reaching. Until it falls down, collapses, his mind, unable to conclude. His opinion so strongly resolved at the beginning was becoming weaker and weaker, so that now he was unsure. Confused, trapped inside his own mind, hearing the man inside his head. The swish of a long dark coat attracted his attention, drew his eyes, like a dog on the scent. Only it would never be Sherlock. It never could be Sherlock, or so said Mycroft, and Lestrade, and all the doctors. John knew that he'd never find the truth about Sherlock, he wasn't smart enough. No one believed his theory about him disguising himself as a doctor. Why couldn't they see that that was exactly what Sherlock would do thought? His anger at everyone, including Sherlock overwhelmed him. He felt like smashing the glass and throwing a couple of highly efficient punches. However John was much more controlled than that, he'd only punched one person and they'd thoroughly, in his mind, deserved it.

The door swung open, a cool breeze swept up to John's ankles and naturally his head turned to the door. Another force of habit. His heart leapt. They were tall, pale, curly dark hair and had adorned themselves in a long dark coat and a navy blue scarf. It looked like Sherlock. He stood up. Unsteady on his feet. He placed the cup on the bar to prevent him from dropping it. It was a ghost, a spectre, maybe he really was mad. Or maybe he was right. The man crossed the pub in two strides to stand before him. John looked into his face, it was Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" he asked faintly, unsure, barely hoping.  
>"John." he said, his voice measure, even, normal. A grey mist swirled before John's eyes.<p>

* * *

><p><em>And I wonder if I<br>Ever cross your mind  
>For me it happens all the time<em>

When John awoke he had a pounding headache. Groaning he rubbed his eyes. Rolling over he immediately became aware that he was not in fact in his bed at Baker Street but somewhere else. How come he had been out for so long? He had only fainted. Rubbing a hand over his face he realised that Sherlock must have drugged him. He sat up right and saw him sitting there.

"YOU-"  
>"Hello to you to John."<br>"You drugged me!"  
>"Well yes, I have a task that needs doing this evening that cannot be done if you are under the influence of alcohol." There was a pause in which John looked away and Sherlock's eyes flashed darkly. "Why?" John looked up and saw that Sherlock was looking at him with real confusion. He didn't understand.<p>

"Because I was." John stopped and thought. How on earth was he to explain this to Sherlock. "Because for awhile when I was in hospital before you 'died', I kept hearing you. You kept talking to me about Moriarty but you'd only ever visited once and that time you hadn't said anything so it wasn't possible. Basically everyone thought I was going mad. Then the night you died I heard you talking to me after you should be dead. I kept telling everyone that you weren't dead. No one believed me obviously it was my word against Mycroft's. In the end I was put in a psychiatric ward. They never actually found anything wrong with me but when I got let out I was just lost. I didn't know anymore whether I was sane or not Sherlock, you have no idea." John's eyes flickered away from his, they had turned ever so slightly red. Sherlock could feel his hands clenching on his chair. Oh god what had he done. Was this what he got for caring about another person, for thinking about them.

"John." he said. There was the raw emotion in his voice, just like a the pool, this dragged John's eyes back to Sherlock's face where he could see horror and sorrow written all over his features. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. You're sane, of course you are and I was visiting you and talking about Moriarty." John nodded it made sense. "I still don't-"

"Because I didn't have to think or be reminded of you or anything else." Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his face.  
>"Did you really think of me that often?"<br>"Sherlock I thought you were alive and everyone kept telling me you were dead of course you occupied my mind." Sherlock nodded.

"You said something about it being your word against Mycroft's."  
>"Yes he kept telling me you were dead, well Lestrade delivered the news but after that." Sherlock's hands were clenched into fists. "Sherlock what's wrong?"<br>"My brother knew I was alive." There was a shocked silence. John was sure that he had misheard.  
>"What?"<br>"You heard me perfectly well John, I told my brother I was still alive. I needed the resources only Mycroft posses. I also asked him to look after you." John sat and thought it over.  
>"I think he tried." Sherlock raised his eyebrows.<br>"He lied to me, John, he told me that you were working in the surgery." John stared at Sherlock clearly lost in thought.  
>"I think this is my fault."<br>"Your fault? How can it possibly be-"  
>"The first time I went drinking Mycroft showed up with a car and I punched him in the face, broke his nose and gave him two black eyes. I got arrested, but then Lestrade found out about it and who I'd punched and he let me go after that there was always a car waiting for me at closing time. I've never been in any danger."<br>"That's what you think." John rubbed his eyes.  
>"Okay was I ever in danger?" Sherlock sat forward in his chair his eyes bright.<br>"I asked Mycroft to watch for the same reason I disappeared, danger. I was hunting Moriarty's criminal empire, I was the most wanted man in the criminal underworld and you being my companion, being my friend were the second. Plus quite a lot of people will have been aware that you were the fifth pip." John looked at him in shock.  
>"But no one's tried to kill me or anything."<br>"Because I died, John. You weren't a threat anymore. People have been keeping an eye on you though, I wouldn't doubt that." John frowned.  
>"You did this to protect me."<br>"Amongst other things, yes, it was one of my top priorities."

"Did you miss me?" John couldn't help asking. Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
>"Of course, I had to talk to myself. People thought I was crazy." John flinched. "Sorry."<br>"Doesn't matter." There was a pause in which the gazed at each other and then finally John said. "And you wonder why people think we're together." there was another short pause before the both broke into laughter, revelling in each others company after so long apart.

* * *

><p><em>It's a quarter after one<br>I'm a little drunk  
>And I need you now<br>Said I wouldn't call  
>But I've lost all control<br>And I need you now_

"So what exactly is this task you need me for?" asked John as the two of the flat that Sherlock had known would be deserted.  
>"What? Oh I may need some help reeling in the line on which I laid the bait for the biggest fish in the sea." John gazed at him blankly. "I laid trap for Moriarty's right hand man but I doubt he'll come quietly, so I need you."<br>"You could have just said that."  
>"The meaning was plainly transcribed in the metaphor, all you had to do was think."<br>"You try thinking when you have a pounding headache." Sherlock cast him a dismissive sideways glance.  
>"I thought you took a painkiller."<br>"I did but it's not working."  
>"Well take another one."<br>"I can't not for another four hours, unless you want me to overdose, of course."  
>"Please, you won't over dose if you take one extra tablet, you're no use to me like this."<br>"Sherlock I'm fine, I'm just not up to your puzzles. I could quite easily deck you if that's what you want."  
>"No thank you, John, though I thought you would earlier."<br>"Yeah I had serious thoughts about doing that too."  
>"But you gave Mycroft a black eye.""Two black eyes.""And then Lestrade let you out free of charge."<br>"Yes that's what I said." Sherlock's face had lit up in glee. He was positively bouncing down the road and the thought of someone punching Mycroft and not getting punished.  
>"I knew I worked with Lestrade for a reason."<br>"Yes because he's the only who'd give you a case." Sherlock shot him a side long look.  
>"Because he's the only one with any sense."<br>"Fair enough."  
>"I think your headache is getting better doctor."<br>"You know I think it is too detective." They walked along in silence, quite casually. John not bothering to ask, how Sherlock had hurt his leg.

"Sherlock." he said after a little while.  
>"Yes."<br>"If you're the most wanted man in the criminal underworld how come you're just wandering the streets?" Sherlock smiled.  
>"I wondered when you'd ask me that. I'm only back in London because I have nearly destroyed all of Moriarty's empire. Most of it is broken, the people left are inefficient thugs who pose no threat to you or I. As I said the last man is the man we want to catch today."<br>"And then that's it, you'll have defeated Moriarty. You won."  
>"It wasn't a game John."<br>"What?"  
>"It stopped being a game when you got involved, it became personal."<p>

"So what happens after you capture this guy."  
>"After <em>we<em> capture him we resume our normal lives at 221B." There was a pause.  
>"Mrs Hudson told you where I was then."<br>"Yes, she was very upset."  
>"God I'll have to apologise."<br>"John have seen what I have done to her flat?"  
>"Yes I live there."<br>"Exactly and I never apologised."  
>"Well no, but you're you. No one expects you to apologise."<br>"I apologised just now.""Yes because of all the things you've done that was definitely the worst." there was another long pause between them.

"John you do know that I wanted to call you before now but I couldn't risk it."  
>"I kn-"<br>"Eventually when I got to London however I decided that I couldn't do it any longer, the danger was mostly alleviated and we do share a flat but I just wanted to make sure you weren't harmed again because of me."  
>"Sherlock, it's okay. I know, I understand." Sherlock swallowed.<br>"Good."  
>"Okay then."<p>

* * *

><p><em>And I don't know how<br>I can do without  
>I just need you now<em>

Mrs Hudson carefully set up the new delivery as the instructions said. Sherlock turning up at her front door had been a shock. She had screamed and then fainted. She had awoken on her sofa with Sherlock nervously hovering over her. She had screamed again and then gripped his arm very hard to make sure it really was him. It had been a shock to say the least. He had made some semi drinkable tea which he insisted she drank before he explained anything. He said that if there was anything else wrong he could call John. Then Mrs Hudson had felt the colour drain from her cheeks. Sherlock didn't know about the drinking. She had never evicted the poor doctor, she cared too much about him, besides he never gave her any trouble and the elder Holmes, Mycroft paid the rent, but she wasn't happy. It must be like watching your child waste away. Sherlock had asked her what was wrong. She had dithered, unsure whether to tell him the truth but she knew that you couldn't hide the truth from Sherlock Holmes. So she told him. She told him the whole truth and watched the usually cool features grow angry. The eyes grow dark. He had clenched and unclenched his hands several times before he seemed to regain control. He then explained the entire situation from start to finish and explained how he needed her help. She'd said yes in an instant, anything to help Sherlock and to get John back. Then with a whirl of his coat he'd been gone, no doubt off to the pub to collect John.

So now she was in Sherlock's living room setting up her end of the trap. It was ingenious, she just hoped that she performed her part well, Sherlock was counting on her. Normally Sherlock only needed her to make sure that he lived by keeping food in his fridge, though she strictly maintained that she was not their housekeeper. Now their whole plan hinged on this. She hoped that Sherlock had John with him and that the two boys had made up and John was sober and everything. She didn't understand why they bothered to sleep in separate rooms and everything. It wasn't as if she minded. Besides if the drinking wasn't proof of feelings then she didn't know what was. She shifted in her spot in Sherlock's chair, holding her cup of tea. She was so glad that soon Baker Street would have her boys in it again. It was far too empty without them. She needed them both back in her life soon.

* * *

><p><em>Whoa, whoa<br>Guess I'd rather hurt  
>Than feel nothing at all<em>

John squinted through the window. "Is that Baker Street?" Sherlock smiled.  
>"Very astute, John."<br>"Wait what is that in the window? It looks like…" he broke off gazing at Sherlock wide eyed.  
>"It's a model." explained Sherlock. "I had it specially made."<br>"It's brilliant, it looks just like you." Sherlock nodded.  
>"The boredom was certainly worth it." John laughed quietly looking up at Sherlock.<br>"I've missed this."  
>"What?" asked Sherlock as he sat against the wall next to him.<br>"Err, how about the adrenaline?"  
>"Oh yes Mycroft said you were back on the crutch."<br>"Oh damn we left it at the pub." they both laughed again.  
>"Well you are quite heavy John and all the people in the pub were looking at me like they'd seen a ghost." John buried his head in his knees.<p>

"Oh no."  
>"What?"<br>"I think, though I don't actually know, but I think I told everyone in the pub about what happened." Sherlock paused he knew that John was now feeling guilty about telling all the people about what had happened.  
>"I think, seeing as you kept that rather incorrect blog, I can forgive you ranting to the pub." John looked up.<br>"You aren't mad."  
>"John if I wanted everything kept quiet I would have disabled your blog."<br>"True."  
>"Look I understand my actions must have hurt you deeply, add to that the psychological trauma you were suffering from, I think mouthing of your life story to the pub is not the worst thing you could do. I was more concerned when I came back and found this on your bedside table." Sherlock handed John's gun to him. John flushed.<p>

"Sorry."  
>"I don't think you've done anything wrong, John. Just tell me were you suicidal?"<br>"What do you think, Sherlock?" Sherlock looked him right in the eyes. In all the time he had known John he had abhorred smoking, drug abuse and drinking, especially drinking because of his sister. Now he was an alcoholic. He was clearly unemployed and was entirely dependent on Mycroft.

"Did you ever try?"  
>"I played a few rounds of Russian Roulette once." Thump. Sherlock punched him. "Ouch! Sherlock!"<p>

You idiot!" John rolled his eyes. "Don't roll your eyes, I'm not talking about this is an intellect problem solving way. How could you think about throwing away your life!"  
>"I was drunk."<br>"Not an excuse."  
>"You can't preach Sherlock, you took drugs because you were bored."<br>"It wasn't that simple!"  
>"Neither was this!" they both paused looking at each other, chest heaving, aware that they were supposed to be catching a criminal.<p>

"Look Sherlock I just wanted to escape. I wanted to escape everything in my mind, okay. To be trapped inside your own head, you've no idea."  
>"Don't I?" John looked back at Sherlock. "When I'm bored I have to sit and listen to the inconsequential chatter inside my own head. I know exactly what you're talking about."<br>"Then you'll know why I wanted to turn it off. I did alcohol and took my chances with my gun and you did drugs." Sherlock chewed his lip. He could see how much this was tearing apart John. This was all because John had feelings. Well Sherlock had feelings to a certain degree but not like this. This was why feelings were pointless.  
>"Okay." said Sherlock after a moment. "When was the last time you played?"<br>"Two weeks ago."  
>"Right, I think after this you'll have to let me take the gun."<br>"Sherlock are trying to help me?"  
>"I did just try to keep you safe, keep up."<br>"Oh yes."  
>"And we'll have to keep you off the alcohol you're no use to me like that." John looked at him and saw the small smile before the hard mask slipped onto Sherlock's face.<br>"Thank you."  
>"Not a problem, it's strange for me caring about people. It may take me awhile to get use to."<br>"I don't think you've had a very good introduction to feelings." said John. Sherlock tilted his head back and looked at him.  
>"No I don't think I have either, never mind."<p>

* * *

><p><em>It's a quarter after one<br>I'm all alone  
>And I need you now<br>And I said I wouldn't call  
>But I'm a little drunk<br>And I need you now_

The two of them sat quietly in the house opposite Baker Street waiting for this mysterious man to turn up. John was aware of two people on the street below but as Sherlock was aware of them too there wasn't any point worrying. He stretched his muscles and was about to ask Sherlock what they were looking for when he heard a door opening below. He saw panic flit across Sherlock's face as they heard feet cross the hall below and begin to climb the stairs. Sherlock grabbed his arm and led him quietly across to the shadows alarm in his eyes. Pressed against the wall they watched as the door opened and a man entered. He glanced once round the room and didn't notice their presence in the corner. John watched as he knelt down and withdrew a strange gun. Sherlock's grip tightened on his arm, no doubt out of excitement. The man knelt down and aimed the gun out of the window at the dummy of Sherlock. He had no sooner pulled the trigger than Sherlock leapt on him. The man reacted very quickly, dropping his gun, throwing Sherlock off and promptly getting a hold of his neck. John had one moment to get annoyed at the fact that Sherlock always managed to get strangled before whacking to man over the head with his gun. He fell off Sherlock and John got a firm hold of him as he heard more feet come up the stairs. In the door way was Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan, neither seemed too surprised that Sherlock was alive, John had been unconscious for awhile yesterday. If anything they seemed more shocked to see him there than Sherlock. Donovan quickly handcuffed the man whilst giving both of them a wide berth. John had taken a step and was taking some deep breaths, feeling the adrenaline flow through his body once more.

"John." said Lestrade. "It's good to see you again."  
>"You to Greg."<br>"One would think I hadn't just returned from the dead." said Sherlock from where he lay on the floor.  
>"Yes well John might as well be and he didn't drop us a line yesterday." He pulled the man to his feet. "So who exactly is this?"<br>"That is Colonel Sebastian Moran, recently discharged from Afghanistan, rather like you John." John nodded.  
>"Well Colonel Sebastian Moran I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes."<br>"Detective Inspector."  
>"Yes Sherlock."<br>"I'd prefer." he said his eyes sliding for half a second to John "for my name to stay out of this."  
>"Okay, but what am I supposed to arrest him for then?" there was a silence in which Sherlock looked at him incredulously.\<br>"You mean you haven't worked it out?" Lestrade rolled his eyes, Donovan groaned and John suppressed a grin, normality was returning. "With the exception of John, who no doubt has no idea that the murder took place." John winced at the truth of this statement. "I'd have expected you all to figure it out. It seems you haven't improved in my absence, however did you cope?" However Lestrade was piecing what Sherlock had just said together with the name of the man and the gun.

"This man killed Adair."  
>"Well done Lestrade, he did indeed."<br>"Oh my god." there was silence then. "Why?"  
>"Because he cheating at cards. It's all quite boring really, if it weren't for the gun. Now if you don't mind, John and I have better places to be." Lestrade rolled his eye as Sherlock swept of and John followed him.<p>

"Tomorrow morning."  
>"Fine."<p>

As they were crossing the street Sherlock slowly massaged his neck.  
>"It seems that was a good call I made."<br>"What?"  
>"Bringing you to that crime scene, you've been nothing but invaluable ever since." He turned to grin at him as he banged on the door, not at all surprised to see John flush red under the praise. He rarely let on how much he needed him.<p>

* * *

><p><em>And I don't know how<br>I can do without  
>I just need you now<br>I just need you now_

Mrs Hudson let them in with a huge smile on her face, John's keys had been taken off him a long time ago by the assistant in the car and Sherlock had given his to Mycroft, both in the interest of safety. She hugged Sherlock and the John who was the soberest and definitely the happiest she had seen him in a long time.

"Off upstairs you two I'll expect you want to say hello properly." there was a short pause in which John flushed red and Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes, he was too intellectually superior to physically do that. Then they both dissolved into laughter.  
>"Actually Mrs Hudson." said John, after glancing at Sherlock. "What we really want-"<br>"Is some tea and as I doubt John has made any in a while."  
>"And Sherlock can't make edible tea."<br>"Yes I can."  
>"No you can't."<br>"We wondered if you could." Sherlock finished the little speech with the politest sentence she had ever heard him utter to her. She rolled her eyes.  
>"Just this once I'm-"<br>"Not your housekeeper, thank you." they said together and they bounded off up the stairs, completely in sync with each other. She couldn't help laugh as she went off to her kitchen to get the tea bags. She couldn't believe that they were back. She didn't know how they'd survived apart. They needed each other.

Mycroft watched the events unfold via the security cameras and various bugs he had planted around London. It had been strange to listen and watch their conversation in the flats, both of them, when Sherlock and John had got, well, emotional. He had known Sherlock's reaction would not have been good when he discovered that John had become an alcoholic on his watch but it was John's choice, that nose had hurt. Besides he was there to stop him getting killed, he wasn't a bloody babysitter, Sherlock was bad enough. He knew when he got back from Turkey he would be getting a visit from Sherlock. He had been quite surprised that John had tried to help him. It had been strange watching Sherlock struggle to cope with what was going on around him. This was why Mycroft hadn't told him. Sherlock had needed to know that John was fine. He knew that deep down Sherlock understood that. Again his own words playing over in his mind.

"_He could be the making of my brother or make him worse than ever." _Sherlock's reaction to the thought of John committing suicide had been tell tale indeed. Sherlock never lost control and resorted to physical violence. Except with John. John seemed to be the exception to everything. He was the only person that Sherlock would admit to needing.

* * *

><p><em>Oh baby, I need you now<em>

Sherlock sat opposite John observing him. He seemed distinctly uncomfortable, despite the tea in his hand and the fact he was back in his home. Sherlock noticed that his eyes were darting around the room. He followed his eyes around and saw that, with the exception of the windows and a few small things it was nearly exactly the same as when they were both last sitting in here. Sherlock became aware that John's hand was shaking, this must be the tremor that he was supposed to have in his left hand. Sherlock realised that this was the first time that John had probably sat in here for a very long time, probably since he had been discharged from hospital.

"John?"  
>"Sherlock."<br>"Your hand."  
>"Well I'm hardly stressed."<br>"That's not what I meant. I've never seen it shake before. What else is bothering you?"  
>"It's nothing. Something really stupid, actually."<br>"And that is." Sherlock wasn't going to stop prodding his friend until he gave him the answer he wanted and John knew that.  
>"Well, I, it just it feels like it's all in my head." he said finally, not looking at Sherlock. Sherlock considered telling John that he was an idiot but decided that that wasn't the best way to go about this. He was obviously afraid that this was all a hallucination or something, now that all the adrenaline had worn off. Now that John felt how he normally felt. Sherlock bit his lip. He knew that this was delicate area. This was a messy puzzle and unless he picked his way through it exactly right John and he would likely never be friends again.<p>

"Give me your hand." said Sherlock. John looked up in shock. "I don't want to hold it." he said disdainfully. John stretched out his right arm cautiously. "The other one John." John sighed and extended his left hand to Sherlock. He took it firmly in both of his own and pressed it. John frowned. Unable to work out what Sherlock was doing. When his hand was released the shaking had stopped.

"What the hell?" said John looking at his hand. "What did you do?" he looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes.  
>"Convinced you I was real." he said with a smile. "I'm surprised I need to." John snorted and soon both of them were laughing over tea in Baker Street, their worries forgotten, absolved by one an other.<p> 


End file.
